PS 
3537 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  STANDARD  UPHELD  AND  OTHER 
VERSES 


HE  STANDARD  UPHELD 
AND     OTHER    VERSES 
BY  MORGAN  SHEPARD 
PUBLISHED    BY    ELDER   AND 
SHEPARD,  SAN   FRANCISCO 
MCMII 


Copyrighted  by 
Elder  &  Shepard 


TO  MY  FRIEND 
TOM  WATKINS 


862782 


CONTENTS 

Shall  I  Cast  Down  the  Standard  of  My  Life  ?    i 

The  Child  and  the  Cross 5 

Morning 6 

Sowing 8 

The  Seed  and  the  Word 9 

Into  My  Crystal  World 10 

The  Smile n 

The  Cat xa 

A  Feather  from  the  Wing  of  Time  ....  13 

The  Reed 14 

Years  and  Tears 15 

White  and  Red 16 

Barriers 17 

Out  of  the  Heart    .    .    .    , 18 

Mary. 19 

To  Phoebe 20 

Suggested  by  XXXVI 

(Poems  of  W.E.Henley) 21 

The  Red  Bead 23 

A  Thought 24 

My  Fancy 25 

The  Little  World 26 

Through  the  Trees ....   29 


THE  STANDARD  UPHELD  AND  OTHER 
VERSES   ft*    *%>    ft*    t*    ft* 


SHALL  I  CAST  DOWN  THE 
STANDARD  OF  MY  LIFE? 

HALL  I  throw  down  the  Stand 
ard  of  my  Life, 
And  bend  beneath  the  clutch  of 

circumstance? 
Through  trembling  fingers  shall 

I  view  the  strife 
Hid  by  the  wings  of  some  un 
certain  chance? 

Tossed  on  the  wave,  or  battered  in  the  moil 
Of  striding  days  whose  heavy  hands 
Press  my  face  deep  into  the  bloody  soil, 
Or  cast  my  hopes  across  the  desert  sands, 
Whirled  by  the  rush  and  current  of  the  flood 
Shall  I  sweep  passive  stripped  of  mine  own 

will  — 
Self-pitying?    Shall  wounds  or  dripping 

blood, 

Or  little  tears,  a  weakling's  chalice  fill? 
When  night  comes  down  upon  the  trodden 

field 

And  day's  last  touch  streaks  my  horizon  red 
With  promise  of  new  wounds  to  go  unhealed 
Shall  I  cry  "Done"  and  wait  with  craven  head 


And  eyes  cast  down  a  turning  of  the  wheel  ? 
Or  shall  I  wait  the  breaking  of  a  morn 
Whose  hand  is  soft,  beneath  whose  touch  I 

kneel, 
And  smile,  and  hope  and  murmur  prayers 

forlorn  ? 

Or  shall  I  laugh  in  bitterness  complete, 
And  turn  my  back  with  sneers  upon  the  strife; 
Or  look  for  tracks  made  plain  by  braver  feet; 
And  drop  to  Earth  the  Standard  of  my  Life  ? 
The  Tides  cease  not  to  rise  and  backward 

sweep; 

The  Sun  will  burn  upon  his  destined  track, 
The  Rocks  unmoved  stand  grim  beside  the 

deep. 
The  Living  Wave  —  what  might  shall  strike  it 

back 
To  silence  dead? 

Ye  Gods  and  Men,  shall  I 
Bend  low  beneath  the  random  soulless  hand 
Of  fate  ?  Or  quail  to  see  the  blackened  sky  ? 

All  these  are  great,  but  I  will  fearless  stand 
An  Atom  to  defy  — a  sharp  Comparison. 
And  laugh  with  joy,  and  wait  with  teeth 
close  set, 


And  stretch  my  arms  toward  the  smiting 
Sun: 

And  hold  my  Standard  close  without  regret— 

'Tis  mine!  'tis  mine!    though  torn  and  bat 
tle  rent; 

And  who  shall  claim  its  Legend  for  his  own  ? 

— Not  Man,  nor  Gods,  nor  Angels  heaven 
sent — 

'  Tis  mine !  '  tis  mine !  each  word  upon  it 
grown 

Out  of  the  roots  of  my  advancing  Soul. 

Legend  of  Blood,  and  wounds  and  loss  and 
sweat, 

Legend  of  Hope  —  no  Knell  of  doom  shall  toll 

The  death  of  such.    Nor  coils  of  vain  regret 

Hide  its  escutcheon  plain  from  watching  Gods. 

No  envious  hands,  or  small  suspicious  sneers 

Shall  drag  it  low.  ^  No  scourging  of  the  rods 

Upon  my  head  and  heart,  shall  force  the  tears 
Beyond  a  dimming  of  my  human  sight. 
E'en  were  I  blind  (blood  falling  'neath  the 

thorn)— 

Still  forward  will  I  lean  my  head  upright, 
And  count  the  scourging  naught,  when  so 

well  borne. 


My  Standard  shall  be  held  above  the  swirl 
And  backward  rush  of  disappointment's  flood. 
Held  to  my  breast,  when  fiercest  is  the  whirl 
Of  bitter  doubts  —  oft  tremblingly  withstood. 
Little  or  great,  my  Standard  is  my  all: 
In  forward  rush,  in  fall  precipitate, 
In  backward  rout;  beneath  the  heavy  pall 
Of  crippled  faculties  inadequate. 
Outward  'tis  held,  defying  circumstance, 
Upward  '  tis  held,  to  hide  the  sins  of  birth, 
Inward  '  tis  lock'd,  to  foil  the  web  of  Chance, 
Wrapping  me  close,  to  meet  the  glaring 

dearth 

Of  fitting  mail.    '  Tis  mine !  for  all  '  tis  mine ! 
Deep  in  the  Vale  of  my  obscurity, 
Or  on  the  heights  where  close  ambitions  shine 
Up  to  my  eyes  in  near  maturity. 
E'en  though  I  stand  before  the  Door  at  last, 
Bloody  and  worn,  and  panting  from  the  Strife, 
Even  should  then  the  powers  fiercely  cast 
Me  back  again — the  Standard  of  my  Life 
Shall  wave  above  the  torrent  of  my  woe  — 
No !  no !  and  no !    I  will  not  cast  it  down 
'  Til  Death  shall  come  —  then  shall  its  Legend 

glow 

Outwards  and  up— "This  Standard  is  my  own." 

4 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  CROSS 

H  LIGHT  breaks  into  the  dark  today, 
Soft  with  a  touch  of  love 
Alight  spreads  over  the  shadows  gray 

From  open  doors  above  — 
Into  the  Night  — the  Night. 

A  Song  sweeps  over  a  silence  vast 

Turning  the  darkness  still, 
Awaking  to  song  a  hopeless  past  — 

Hymn  of  a  great  good  will  - 

Anthem  of  Love  —  of  Love. 

New  Hope  blooms  fresh  from  the  bed  of 
Night  — 

Blooms  with  a  luster  mild,— 
And  spreads  to  gather  the  gentle  light, 

Gift  of  the  Holy  Child, 

Peace  and  good  will  —  good  will — 

The  light  breaks  into  each  hidden  place 
Of  sorrow,  death  and  loss. 

The  Love  of  the  Child  —  a  Human  Face  — 
Reflection  of  the  Cross  — 
Love  of  the  Child— The  CHILD. 


MORNING 

XTHE  morning,  when  the  mists  of 
Night 
ling  to  my  Soul,  and  dim  a  needed 

sight;  ' 
When  scattered  wide  I  see  the  threads  of 

power, 

Which  I  would  hold  to  guide  me  at  that  hour ; 
When  all  in  doubt  I  stand  — 
Do  thou  then  raise  thy  hand  — 
And  show  me  where  the  Sun  has  kissed  the 

hills, 

And  say  a  light  the  mist-robed  distance  fills. 
Then  love  me  much,  and  start  me  on  the  way, 
Bid  me  be  brave  to  tread  the  Path  that  Day  - 
Such  help  canst  thou  give  me  — 
O,  how  I  look  to  thee ! 

AT  NOON-TIDE,  when  beneath  the  smiting 

sun 

I  gaze  with  sickness,  on  the  little  done  — 
When  all  the  Way,  floats  'neath  a  warning 

heat, 
When  crushed  by  cruel  hands,  Hope  at  my 

feet 

Lies  low — a  fallen  thing  — 

Then  do  thou  solace  bring,  6 


And  point  to  virtues,  where  my  heart  saw 

naught, 
And  say  my  skill  has  some  fair  semblance 

caught 

Of  noble  things  —  my  work  was  not  in  vain, 
And  thou  shalt  quicken  Hope  so,  Love,  again 

At  noon-tide  thou  shalt  be 

Great  solace  unto  me. 

AT  NIGHT  when  Darkness  casts  Her  heavy 

pall 

O'er  my  past  day,  enfolding  closely  all 
The  humble  things  which  I  in  fear  have 

wrought, 
And  blotting  out  a  lesson  learned  or  taught  — 

Hard  striven  for  and  lost  — 

Ah !  none  shall  know  the  cost. 
Then  do  thou  stoop  and  bless  me  by  the  gift 
Of  thy  deep  love,  and  with  thy  dear  hand  lift 
The  cloak  of  Fear,  which  Night  has  cast  on 

me, 
Then  were  no  night  and  I  shall  plainly  see — 

Thou,  dear,  shalt  be  my  light 

At  morn  —  mid-day  and  night. 


SOWING 

OSEEKEST  thou  fair  Fruit  where  thou 
hast  cast 
The  seeds  of  Thought  or  Good  into 
the  Soil? 

Or  dost  thou  sigh,  when  ripened  days  at  last 
Show  Fruitage  strange,  or  weeds  to  pay  for 

toil? 

O,  lookest  thou  for  Blossoms  in  a  Heart 
Which  thy  fond  hand  hath  tilled  with  fearful 

care? 

Thou  weepest  sore,  when  unrepaid  thou  art. 
The  love-tilled  Heart  lies  blossomless  and 
bare  — 

O,  sowest  thou  with  Love  and  Fears, 
O,  reapest  thou  with  Sighs  and  Tears? 

REAPING 

The  Planting  of  the  best  thou  hast  to  give 
Moved  some  dull  mould  to  bloom  with  Fruit 
age  fair. 
Love,  Hope  and  Fear  may  show  no  Fruit, 

yet  live 

In  places  new  to  thee,  and  blooming  there 
Perfected  grows  the  Blossom  vainly  sought. 
The  Heart  love-tilled  holds  worlds  to  thee 
unknown,  8 


Fields  shining  bright  with  Flowers  of  thy 

Thought  — 
Seek  thou  that  place  and  pluck  the  Fruit 

there  grown. 

O,  hast  thou  sown  with  tears  of  Love  ? 

Thy  Blossoms  touch  the  Skies  above! 

THE  SEED  AND  THE  WORD 

GHE  planted  seed 
By  hearts  and  hands, 
Wins  it  a  meed 
'Mid  stones  and  barren  sands? 

The  living  word 

From  earnest  tongue 
Is  it  oft  heard 

On  the  strings  of  hearts  tight  strung  ? 

The  sacred  dew — 

(Tears  from  a  soul,) 
Are  there  too  few 

To  weave  a  chaplet  full? 

Love,  love  —  cold  dead, 

Killed  by  the  Night— 
What  lives  instead 

To  touch  ux  Days  with  Light  ? 


INTO  MY  CRYSTAL  WORLD 

O  MY  Crystal  World  I  gaze; 
Sun  and  green  water  and  blue  — 

a  mystic  coil  of  days 
Spun  from  the  Sun  and  thoughts 
of  you, 

Sun  and  green  water  and  blue  — 
Deep  in  my  Crystal  World. 

Far  in  the  deeps  I  faintly  see 

Clouds  and  hills,  meadows  and  streams  — 
A  fair  white  hand  held  out  to  me. 

My  world  is  small  and  the  distance 

seems 

But  little  over  the  meadows  and  streams, 
Over  my  Crystal  World. 

I'll  hasten  into  my  World  full  fair — 
Sun  and  green  glistening  Sands  — 

Straight  to  the  place,  my  sweet  Love,  where 
You  wait  for  me  with  outstretched  hands. 
The  sun  has  kissed  my  Crystal  Land, 
Kissed  my  Crystal  World. 


10 


THE  SMILE 

a  SMILE  is  a  Flower  blooming  fair- 
Its  petals  often  cover 
Sighs  in  the  heart  or  places  where 
The  wings  of  Sorrow  hover. 

A  smile  is  a  Bird  whose  hopeful  wing 
Gleams  thro*  the  sky  of  Sorrow. 

At  night  in  the  dark  I  hear  it  sing. 
A  Joy  awaits  the  Morrow! 

A  smile  is  a  Brook  that  finds  its  way 
Through  desert  Hearts  and  dreary. 

Drink  of  the  Brook !    Its  Waters  may 
Give  strength  if  thou  art  weary. 

A  smile  is  an  easy  thing  to  build 

Before  our  Cares  or  after— 
And  smiling  once,  we  often  gild 

Our  sombre  woes  with  laughter. 

Then  why  not  smile,  for  the  Day  is  brief; 

The  Night  has  many  hours! 
Then  why  not  smile  and  hide  a  grief 

Beneath  a  wreath  of  Flowers  ? 


THE  CAT 

*^^*'VE  known  thee  long,  but  still  I  know 

thee  not; 
Full  faith  I  have,  which  hath  no  trust 

begot; 

Deep  in  thine  eyes  both  old  and  new  I  see; 
In  thy  still  gaze  is  Simple  Mystery. 
Ask  I  for  aught,  thy  "Yea"  oft  means  a 

"Nay." 
Hast  thou  a  heart?    O,  Who  on  Earth  can 

say? 
For  a  caress,  what  coin  wilt  thou  return? 

When  thou  art  found,  what  new  thing  shall 

I  learn? 

Stay  I  or  go — hast  thou  one  small  regret? 
All  this  is  so  my  heart  tells  me  —  and  yet 
I  must  love  thee  —  Thus  mending  shall 

unmend, 
And  questioning — I  learn  naught  in  the  end. 


12 


A  FEATHER  FROM  THE  WING  OF  TIME 
«*•  ••    PLUCK'D  a  feather  from  Time's  beat- 

ing  wings  — 

I  crushed  it  in  my  hand, 
^  I  pressed  it  to  my  eyes  — 
Blindly  I  hastened  o'er  the  shadow  land  — 
Blindly  I  hastened  through  the  glowing  skies 
To  where  a  white  bird  sings. 

Voiceless  I  press  the  feather  to  my  face 
And  wait — and  hold  —  and  cast — 
And  speed  my  Soul  away; 
And  thrust  my  heart  far  back  into  the  past 
And  forward  into  some  still  unborn  day, 
Some  as  yet  unseen  place. 

Each  day  I  seek  an  answer  in  my  heart. 

(The  feather  pluck'd  for  you! 

The  Soul  thrust  into  space!) 
I  hold  the  hours  and  Time  shall  not  undo 
The  woven  web,  nor  distance  hide  your  face. 

A  singing  bird  thou  art  — 

The  plume  was  pluck'd  for  you. 


THE  REED 

GHOU  art  the  Child,  and  I  the  weary 
Man, 
Thou  art  the  Bud,  and  I  the  broken 

Reed; 

Thy  years  reach  out  to  cover  in  their  span 
Things  all  unform'd  or  some  unname'd 
meed 

To  make  thy  days  complete, 
Dear  Marguerite. 

Each  day  new  born  is  one  fair  petal  turned, 
Then  —  then,  I  look  the  deeper  in  thy  soul 
And  find  there  hid  some  precious  lesson 

learned 

By  thy  young  heart  —  to  build  the  perfect 
whole  — 

So  is  the  Flower  sweet, 
Dear  Marguerite. 

And  I,  the  Reed,  breathe  low  a  prayer  for  thee, 
Hopes  without  words,  O  might  I  point 

the  ways 

Which  I  know  true  —  or  lead  thee  happily 
Till  thou  could'st  see  the  best  of  coming 
Days 
Waiting  thy  willing  feet, 

Dear  Marguerite!  14 


Bent  though  I  be,  and  broken  in  the  strife 
To  gain  some  goal  or  touch  some  hidden 

end, 
May  I  not  point  all  bended  to  a  Life 

Open  to  thee  —  may  I  not  counsel  lend 
That  is  with  love  replete, 
Dear  Marguerite  ? 

Come  then  to  me,  thy  youth  will  bless  my  age; 
Look,  look  to  me,  thy  Life  may  lift  my 

eyes 

To  gaze  with  thee,  upon  the  open  page 
All  fair  for  thee.    Then  will  I  see  thy 
Skies, 

And  catch  thy  fragrance  sweet, 
Dear  Marguerite. 

YEARS  AND  TEARS 

^^•T*  SEE  the  Years  cut  deep  into  the  mould, 

I  see  new  tears,  and  seeing  them, 
^1  grow  old. 

^  Each  smile  new  born,  a  moment 
briefly  gleams. 

All  Hopes  at  morn  are  shadows  of  my  dreams. 
Youth — youth  has  fled,  a  ragged  cloak  I  wear. 
Time  makes  no  bed.  The  weight  of  days  I  bear. 

15 


WHITE  AND  RED 

**^lf"  GAZED  with  cold  eyes  into  a  Flower's 

heart ; 
My  life-worn  soul  had  whispered  low 

to  me, 

"  Go,  cast  thy  power  and  thy  perfected  art 
Into  the  Flower's  soul,  and  note  what  thou 
shalt  see." 

Then  looked  I  coldly  into  the  Blossom's  heart, 
Rose  there  a  white  smile,  that  touched  the 

piercing  light 

Of  eyes  that  fell  not,  but  slowly  forced  apart 
Doors  that  were  better  shut  to  a  Sun  so  bright. 

Then  fiercely  I  kissed  the  white  heart  of  the 

flower, 
That  instant  it  grew  beneath  my  heart's  cold 

breath 
A  thing  changed  blood  red,  slipping  lower  and 

lower 
Into  its  petals,  touched  with  the  mark  of  death. 


Then  struck  I  sharply  on  the  Blossom  door, 
Might  there  not  again  a  fan*  white  smile  arise 
White  out  of  silence,  where  pure  it  slept  before 
I  awoke  it  by  the  still,  cold  gaze  of  my  eyes. 

No  whiteness  shone  through,  or  light  of  purity 
Fell  on  the  darkness  of  the  place  where  I  stood, 
But  through  a  half-closed  door  I  could  plainly 

see 
A  red  light  that  glowed,  like  sunlight  through 

Man's  blood. 

BARRIERS 

TDARE   not   look  too   long,  dear,  in 
thine  eyes, 
For  fear  that  sight  too  clear  should 
come  to  mine ; 

For  fear  that  I  should  see,  thin- veiled,  hi  thine 
Something  I  dread  to  find,  but  know  would 

rise 

Like  sea  mists  creeping  o'er  the  Summer  skies. 
'  Tis  better  far  to  sip  than  waste  the  wine, 
Wiser  to  hope  unbid,  than  to  repine, 
Sweeter  to  weave  a  web  than  sever  ties. 


Mayhap  my  heart  which  hides  its  burning  light, 
Doth  ask  no  more  than  that  its  flame  may  glow 
Warm  in  my  soul  until  my  Lamp  will  show 
Some  sacred  places,  where  my  love  and  sight 
Will  hold  secure  the  little  that  I  see, 
Which  I  may  think  is  mine,  and  kept  for  me. 

OUT  OF  THE  HEART 

REEN  and  simple  blade  of  grass 
A  humble  blossom  hidden  — 
A  human  breath  upon  a  glass  — 
brown  bird  heart-full  bidden 
To  grow  and  gleam, 
To  bloom  and  beam, 
To  spread  and  die, 
To  sing  and  fly, 
Out  of  the  heart  —  all  from  the  heart. 

A  sigh  for  joy  —  a  cry  of  pain, 

An  answer  unexpected  — 
The  clouds,  the  clear,  the  sun,  the  rain, 
The  smiles  or  tears  reflected  — 
All  in  a  day, 
All  by  the  way, 
All  vivid  hours, 
All  from  the  bowers 
Of  one  young  heart— alas  grown  old ! 

18 


MARY 

STAY  Child  a  moment  with  me  here — 
Close,  close  by  me ; 
You  do  not  know  how  precious  - 
O !  how  dear 

Your  waiting  is  to  me.    You  saw  a  tear 
Slip  down  upon  my  cheek  —  Ah !  do  not  fear, 

You  shall  not  see 
Another  such— besides,  how  could  I  cry 

When  I  am  gay  ? 

No,  dear,  that  was  not  quite  a  tear,  but  my 
Great  love  for  you,  like  sea  waves  mounting 

high. 
One  drop  of  Love  out  of  the  sky 

To  bless  the  day. 
I  wonder,  dear  Child,  could  I  ever  tell 

What  made  that  tear, 
The  tear  that  came  and  down  my  hard  cheek 

fell? 

Ah !  no,  I  cannot,  but  this  do  I  know  well — 
For  riches  great  I  would  refuse  to  sell 
That  moment  dear. 


TO  PHCEBE 

^•*^EAR  Phoebe,  could  I  only  touch  your 
\   eyes  — 

Not  with  my  lips, 
But  with  the  tips 

Of  fingers  that  are  burning  with  a  deep  and 
holy  yearning. 

A  shadow  sweetly  lies 
In  your  eyes. 

Dear  Phoebe,  there's  a  flower  on  your  lips,— 
A  flower  Word, 
Will  it  be  heard 

Beyond  the  green  and  growing,  where  the 
winds  of  youth  are  blowing  ? 
A  bird  of  longing  sips 
From  your  lips. 

Dear  Phcebe,  there's  a  white  cloud  on  your 
brow  — 

Drift  from  the  skies 
Of  your  pure  eyes. 

The  cloud  is  softly  drifting,  and  a  light  is  gently 
lifting 

The  dream  of  wonder  now 
From  your  brow. 

20 


Dear  Phoebe,  I  would  fathom  your  deep  eyes 

With  sympathy, 

Then  might  there  be 

An  instant's  sight  exposing,  all  the  bloom  of 

Dreams  reposing 

Down  where  one  flower  dies 

In  your  eyes. 

Suggested  by  XXXVI  (Poems  of 
W.  E.  HENLEY) 

DUSK  when  the  mists  or  sadness 

Slip  over  the  dull  gray  sea, 
A  song  floats  out  on  the  silence  — 
A  sacred  memory. 

At  night  when  the  Woman  passes 

Over  the  place  of  tears, 
She  crushes  a  blood-red  blossom — 

But  none  of  the  song  she  hears. 

She  smites  with  a  wanton  blindness 
The  stem  and  the  broken  leaves, 

Her  robe  and  her  knees  are  bloody — 
But  none  of  the  wreck  she  sees. 


ai 


Each  scar  of  the  Woman's  smiting, 
Each  print  of  her  passing  feet 

Creeps  up  on  the  misty  stillness 
To  join  in  a  hymn  complete. 

The  eyes  of  the  Woman  wanton 

Seek  that  which  she  may  not  find; 

For  the  heart  she  bruised  and  tortured 
Sings  sweet  to  the  evening  wind. 

For  the  living  notes  that  gather 

To  make  a  chain  of  song 
Reach  not  to  the  ears  of  the  Woman 

Who  passes  unblessed  along. 


THE  RED  BEAD 

OGIVE  me  back  the  gathered  chain  of 
days: 
It  once  was  mine,  I've  kissed  it  oft  in 

prayer! 

One  blood-red  bead  upon  your  bosom  stays  - 
And  grows  more  red  because  it  lingers  there. 
Is  it  a  bead,  or  blood  upon  your  breast  ? 
Your  blood  or  mine,  that  burns  your  bosom 
bare? 

It  lies  content — but  is  it  painless  rest? 
Or  gleams  it  plain,  a  day  of  red  despair? 

Fair  is  the  place  whereon  it  makes  its  bed : 
'  Tis  sadly  fair  and  white  with  purity. 
But  with  each  breath  heart-drawn  a  living  red 
Mounts  with  your  breast — in  pulsing  misery. 

O,  give  me  back  the  glowing  sacred  chain 
Of  gathered  days,  for  I  would  count  them 

through 
My  hands,  and  touch  the  blood-red  one,  and 

stain 

My  lips  with  it,  my  eyes  with  it, —  for  you 
Have  worn  it  long  upon  your  neck  and  breast! 
My  chain  of  Days  lacks  one  to  make  complete 

23 


A  broken  strand.    Give  back  the  Day-chain  lest 
All  gathered  days  fall  scattered  at  your  feet. 

The  red  day  fades,  gone  is  the  ruddy  stain, 
But  through  its  depths  your  gleaming  breast 

I  see ; 

The  fading  day  will  ne'er  gleam  red  again, 
And  still  there  gleams  the  star  of  misery. 

A  THOUGHT 

KOM  a  wordless  soul  a  Thought  was 
born 
Part  of  a  Wordless  Whole )  — 
i  he  light  of  the  sun  at  early  morn 
Blinded  the  Silent  Soul. 
It  hid  its  face  from  the  glare  of  day, 
Seeking  a  shadow  where  it  lay. 
Who  shall  console, 
Who  shall  console? 

Gather  ye  flowers  at  even*  sought, 

Flowers  of  souls  and  lives, 
Scatter  them  over  the  wordless  Thought, 

Over  the  Soul  that  strives 
To  give  a  new  garland  to  the  light, 
Plucked  from  the  meadows  of  speechless  night. 

New  buds  it  gives, 

New  fields  it  gives. 

24 


Under  the  shadows  the  blossoms  lie 

( Blossoms  lovingly  brought )  — 

Mark  how  they  fade  and  wither  and  die; 
Where  are  the  words  ye  sought  ? 

Fled  to  the  Home  of  the  waiting  Soul, 
Where  words  bloom  not,  where  thoughts 
console. 

Death  of  a  Thought, 

Life  of  a  Thought. 

MY  FANCY 

GHE  round  hills  gleam  and  quiver 
A  soft  and  full-ripe  yellow  — 
The  canyon  is  a  river 
Of  flowing  green;  and  mellow 
Is  all  the  Earth. 

The  canyon  river  wanders 

And  meets  the  distant  ocean. 

The  day  its  treasures  squanders 
In  thoughtless  dream  devotion  — 
The  day's  sweet  dream. 

A  Soul  sleeps  near  a  mountain 

Where  hearts  and  hopes  are  taken, 
Where  flows  unchecked  a  fountain  — 
When  shall  the  Soul  awaken  ? 

For  it  is  Day. 
35 


THE  LITTLE  WORLD 

mY  Little  World  has  hidden 
Behind  the  mists  of  thought 
Where  none  save  One  is  bidden  — 
Where  none  save  One  is  sought. 

My  World  lies  all  uncertain, 

For  oft  it  flows  and  drifts 
Behind  a  gauzy  curtain 

Which  waves  in  hazy  rifts. 

But  when  the  mists  have  lifted 

I  seek  my  little  land 
And  see  my  fancies  sifted 

All  gold  upon  the  sand. 

The  little  waves  slip  smiling 

Upon  a  silver  beach ; 
The  Hills  of  Thought  lie  piling 

Soft  blue  within  my  reach. 

The  forest  waves  in  billows 

Of  deep  and  velvet  green  — 
Beside  a  stream  the  willows 

All  languorous  careen. 


26 


The  sky  stoops  low  and  kisses 
The  eyelids  of  the  hills  — 

The  hills  where  sleeping  bliss  is 
Where  memory  fulfils 

Each  wish  of  my  heart  yearnings. 

Lost  links  to  fill  a  chain. 
Cool  spots  in  deserts  burning, 

Forgetfulness  of  pain. 

My  world  of  Fancy  beaming 
Beneath  perfected  thought, 

Beneath  the  luster  gleaming 
Of  fancy  fully  caught — 

'  Tis  mine,  'tis  mine  entire  — 
From  hill  to  sleeping  plain ; 

Perfection  of  desire 

Till  come  the  mists  again. 

And  there  I  sit  and  ponder  — 
Or  sing  into  the  wind ; 

Or  through  the  meadows  wander 
Until  my  love  I  find. 

I  wait,  for  sweet  is  waiting  — 

The  moments  tremble  past, 

Their  beauty  naught  abating. 

Then  comes  my  love  at  last. 

27 


I  see  the  light  in  showers 
Of  gems  about  her  feet, 

Where  gleam  the  speechless  flowers 
In  worship  all  complete. 

She  treads  the  happy  grasses, 
Her  robe  across  them  slips  — 

They  sigh  sad  when  she  passes 
Beyond  their  loving  lips. 

My  little  World  completed  j 

My  World  of  will  and  thought  — 
My  Dear  World,  oft  repeated, 

For  there  my  love  is  sought. 


THROUGH  THE  TREES 

OMES  my  Love  beneath  the  trees, 
Blossoms  rise  to  kiss  her  knees, 
All  a-quiver  are  the  leaves, 
Lest  too  loud  the  song  shall  be 

Of  the  love  they  hold  for  her  — 

Of  the  homage  greater  far 

Than  the  deep  sky  or  the  sea. 

Grasses  lift  their  green  to  meet 

Each  dear  burden  of  her  feet — 

Perfumed  breezes  shyly  greet 

Spots  of  sun  and  flowers  sweet. 

For  the  breeze  would  gently  show 

How  the  wind  of  Love  may  blow : 

Passing  by  would  kiss  her  brow, 

Passing  by  might  touch  her  feet. 

Comes  my  Love  all  robed  in  green, 

One  red  flower  in  her  hair 

Flashes  pride  for  being  there. 

One  red  flower  never  seen 

Lifts  and  falls  upon  her  breast, 

Blooms  content  in  lang'rous  rest, 

Flower  of  a  sacred  quest. 
Comes  my  Love  along  the  way, 
Shines  the  wonder  of  the  day 

29 


On  her  face  and  on  her  hair, 
On  her  soft  neck  witching  white— 
Neck  and  breast  of  lovely  might  — 
Floods  of  joy  and  laughter  gay — 
Light  shines  in  her  maiden  eyes. 
Notes  she  aught  save  loving  skies  — 
Sun  and  blossoms,  birds  and  trees, 
Grasses  green  that  kiss  her  knees  ? 

Comes  she  then  with  parted  lips 
Touching  with  her  finger  tips 
Tender  buds  or  dry  rose-hips. 
Is  there  aught  my  dear  Love  sees 
Save  the  Love  she  passes  through  ?  — 
Seeing  her  the  Love  which  grew, 
Grew  and  blossomed  while  she  stood 
Sweet  with  splendors  of  the  Wood, 
Fresh  as  flowers  wet  with  dew. 

Comes  my  Love  close  where  I  stand 
Armour  locked  and  lance  in  hand. 
Visor  closed  o'er  cloud-dark  face. 
Floods  the  wonder  of  her  grace — 
Spreads  the  spell  of  this  dear  place. 
Speeds  the  shadow  from  the  land — 
Fades  the  evil  from  my  brow. 
Stops  my  dear  Love  then  to  show 

30 


Her  sweet  face  to  leaf  and  bough. 

Bud  and  flower,  twig  and  green, 

Have  a  sacred  vision  seen. 

Looks  my  dear  Love  where  I  stand 

Armour  cased  and  lance  in  hand. 

Comes  she  then, — eyes  looking  through 

Trees  and  hills  into  the  blue 

In  sweet  peace  awaiting  her  — 

Stops  she  then,  a  moment  where 

Steel  weighs  down  the  yielding  mould. 

Sun  of  Glory,  Time  of  Gold, 

Do  thou  here  my  dear  One  hold 

Till  I  lift  the  closing  steel, 

Till  I  kiss  her  waiting  feet, 

Till  rejoicing  much  I  feel 

Joy  is  caught,  my  Love  is  won 

From  the  trees  and  from  the  sun. 

Takes  she  now  the  flower  rare 
From  her  breast  all  gleaming  bare, 
Drops  she  then  the  flower  where 
Weight  of  armour,  weight  of  steel 
Press  in  mould  an  iron  heel  — 
Passes  then  my  love  along 
Paths  of  joy  and  spots  of  song. 
Passes  she  with  smiles  between 


Hanging  boughs  and  places  green 
( Fairer  places  ne'er  have  been ), 
Gleams  her  dress  a  moment  bright  - 
Shines  the  flower  in  her  hair  — 
Sadness  holds  my  body  there, 
Sadness  mounting  to  despair. 
Comes  a  time  when  straining  sight 
Sees  no  more  her  beaming  face 
Making  sacred  all  the  place. — 
Look  I  then  through  visor  bar 
At  a  red  spot  lying  near  — 
Weight  of  iron,  strength  of  steel 
Pressing  down  a  cruel  heel. 
Look  I  then  upon  a  star 
Gleaming  hot  up  to  my  face  — 

Pass  I  then  beneath  the  trees, 
Smiting  with  unknowing  knees 
Green  and  flowers  of  the  place. 

Flower  red  and  robe  of  green ! 
Fairest  blossom  ever  seen ! 
Pass  I  o'er  a  dead  delight 
'  Neath  the  trees  into  the  Night. 


OF  THIS  BOOK  FIVE  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY  COPIES 
HAVE  BEEN  MADE  OF  WHICH  FIVE  HUNDRED  ARE 
FOR  SALE.  Jt  *  *  PRINTED  FOR  PAUL  ELDER  AND 
MORGAN  SHEPARD,  SAN  FRANCISCO  J«  ^  J«  BY  THE 
STANLEY-TAYLOR  CO.  J*  .*  ^  NOVEMBER,  MCMH 

THIS  BOOK  IS  NUMBER :£=  2-L 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below 


RtC'O  LO-JJRU 

t  FEB27H969 


PEB2 


lOm-ll, '50  (2555)470 


1969 


P3 ^hepard  - 

3537       The  standard 
S533s     upheld 


PS 
3537 

S538s 


A    001  248046    3 


